


All I Want For XXXmas is a Nice Hard Fuck

by meh_guh



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Smut, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meh_guh/pseuds/meh_guh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur spends Christmas at Eames's mother's house. Under protest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want For XXXmas is a Nice Hard Fuck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Renne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/gifts).



The on-again, off-again fuckbuddy thing Arthur has going with Eames is supposed to be _specifically_ to avoid shit like this.

'Please, darling,' Eames croons down a phone line which is far crappier than it has any right to be; for fuck's sake, Arthur's in _Cornwall_ , not the Sudan. 'My mother makes the most divine goose, and I don't want to continue my twenty-year losing streak for giving racist, homophobic Uncle Alfreic a merry heart attack.'

Arthur squints at the horizon. 'I'm Jewish, Eames.'

'Even better!' Eames says. 'Please, Arthur; I'll be your devoted slave for a whole weekend.'

Arthur snorts and flicks a glance at his empty inbox. 'Fine. But I want your guarantee you'll say yes to the next job I bring you. I don't need a slave, and frankly I think you'd be utter shit at it.'

Eames somehow pouts _audibly_ , but agrees to Arthur's terms.

Which is how Arthur finds himself driving his hired Jeep very slowly down a long, skinny road at half past eight on Christmas Eve. The back-seat has a small pile of professionally-wrapped gifts for Eames's family, and his duffel has a carefully-calculated three shirts to give him an excuse should anyone ( _Eames_ ) try and cajole him into extending the visit past Boxing Day.

Eames's mother's house, when Arthur rounds the last privet hedge and catches sight of it, is one of those massive houses Arthur is used to seeing only in period adaptations. Compared to the two-room apartment in Mott Haven Arthur grew up in, it's enough to give Arthur a headache.

Arthur creeps up the driveway towards brightly-lit windows and the whole obnoxious Hallmark package of chez Eames. He's pretty sure there are actual fucking _robins_ lurking in the picture-perfect trees scattered over the vast lawn, and the stupid English snow seems to have been piled according to a Monet painting. It can't be more than two inches deep, and it's just blanketing everything in a painfully picturesque way. Arthur snorts and thinks about doing a three-point turn and driving back to London, but he doesn't want to bother and he _does_ actually miss Eames.

Eames appears in the doorway as Arthur's contemplating where to park, bundled in the ugliest sweater Arthur's ever seen. It's mesmerisingly bad, and Arthur feels almost in awe of its existence.

'Darling,' Eames shouts, grinning, and he jogs over to tap on Arthur's window. 'You _did_ come!'

Arthur rolls the window down and scowls at the reindeer holding a glass of wine adorning Eames's chest. The reindeer is wearing its own hideous sweater, and someone has threaded actual fairy lights into the fabric. 'Your sweater is making me reconsider. I've still got time to go buy a ticket to Paris.'

Eames leans through the window to give Arthur his customary X-rated welcome kiss. 'Lies. And I look _fabulous_. Come on inside and meet the teeming hordes.'

Arthur gives Eames a solid shove to get him back outside the Jeep, swings into an empty space next to an utterly impractical two-seat Maserati that all but screams “Eames”. Eames tromps over through all inch and a half of the snow and helps Arthur out by opening the door, grabbing Arthur's Saville Row lapels and hauling.

'Hi,' he grins, smoothing the fabric over Arthur's chest before Arthur can bitch him out and leaning in to press Arthur against the Jeep.

'Hi,' Arthur replies, curling his nails into the nape of Eames's neck and feeling a rush of arousal as Eames melts at the touch. 'Tell me you were joking about the racist uncle.'

'Sorry,' Eames presses a line of kisses into Arthur's jaw. 'Not joking.'

Arthur sighs, but he hadn't expected to get off that lightly. 'At least tell me you were joking about his name.'

Eames laughs into Arthur's collar, hot breath and stubble and lips setting Arthur firmly to “smoulder”. 'Dreadfully sorry, darling, but his name is Alfreic St John Hilary the third. Family name.'

Arthur lets his head thunk back against the Jeep. 'Of course. Can you at least reassure me that you weren't born Alfreic St John Hilary the fourth? I don't think I could stand it.'

'Rest easy, Arthur,' Eames takes a reluctant step back. 'My mother named me a thoroughly unremarkable English name that no one could possibly object to.'

Arthur's never actually been able to confirm Eames's birth name, which he privately considers one of Eames's more impressive accomplishments. 'So what was it?'

'Ah,' Eames crooks one side of his grin a little higher. 'When I say “no one” could object, it's not entirely true. I objected, and did so strenuously enough that it is No Longer Mentioned, so I'm afraid you'll have to remain ignorant on this one point.'

'Fine,' Arthur gives Eames another firm shove so he can retrieve the keys and his duffel from the front. 'You can carry the presents in.'

He follows Eames into the house, reflexively noting points of entry and potential hazards as Eames shows him up a polished wood staircase and into a room that almost certainly has a name. He throws his duffel onto a chaise longue and gives the room a visual sweep.

'Let me guess,' Arthur smirks. 'This is the Blue Room?'

'When I lived here it was known as the Clashes With Everything Room,' Eames laughs and throws himself down on the bed. 'I think the happiest day of my mother's life was the day I left for Sandhurst because she could finally redecorate and restore the “appropriate” tone.'

'You shock me,' Arthur replies and stalks across the room to stand over Eames. He climbs onto the bed to straddle Eames's hips. 'Do we have to go pay my respects to your mother right now?'

'Oh, propriety from me might shock her into the heart attack I'm aiming at Uncle Alfreic,' Eames grabs Arthur by the lapels again and drags him down. 'Best not to risk it.'

Arthur grabs for the hem of Eames's dreadful sweater and tears it off him at last. He hurls it towards the door before he lets Eames drag him into a slow kiss.

Eames kisses like there's nothing and no one else in the world; powerful focus and leisure to do the thing properly. Arthur's a fan of thoroughness, but after five hours trailing minivans and seemingly-pedal powered Morris Mini Minors, he's lacking his customary patience.

Arthur yanks Eames's T-shirt up, thumbs his flies open and tips him backwards onto the mattress. Eames bounces a few times, pulls his shirt the rest of the way off and leans back on his elbows to smirk.

'In a hurry, are we?' Eames toes his shoes off. 'I do so _love_ it when you take charge.'

Arthur grips Eames's jeans (no underwear, the confident _slut_ ) and jerks them down his thickly-muscled legs to hurl them at the sweater.

Arthur takes a step back to contemplate the view. Eames, naked and unashamed on a quilted coverlet, bedroom furniture Arthur pegs as genuine Chippendale scattered around, and Arthur still fully dressed. He sheds his jacket, folding it carefully on the chaise longue. His tie is next, though Eames pouts when Arthur discards it; he loves using Arthur's ties as a handhold.

His waistcoat Arthur opens one button at a time, slowly thumbing mother of pearl through painstakingly-hand stitched buttonholes. He sets his cuff links on the dresser, then he prowls over to the bed and lifts one foot onto the mattress. Eames stares up, cock leaking against his thigh, and bends over to grip Arthur's lace in his teeth.

Arthur has to force himself to remain perfectly still as Eames undoes Arthur's shoe with careful teeth; he swaps feet and Eames repeats himself. Arthur pulls his shoes off, then his socks. He drops them carelessly by the bed and untucks his shirt, aided by Eames's hands sliding under and against his abdomen.

The shirt joins the jacket, folded with military precision. Suddenly tired of the tease, Arthur shoves his pants and boxer briefs off too and stalks over to Eames.

'Darling,' Eames relaxes, spread over the bed invitingly, ready for whatever Arthur wants.

Arthur settles himself over Eames, wraps one hand around their erections and gives a slow stroke that has Eames throwing his head back into the pillows and muttering gibberish.

Arthur works them slowly and thoroughly, dipping his head every third upstroke to place careful bites along Eames's collarbones. Eames hitches his knees up to let Arthur grind down harder, and he comes with a helpless groan that winches Arthur right up to fever pitch. He thrusts into the mess between them, lets Eames drag him into a wet and filthy kiss, and lets go.

Eames sighs happily, breath ruffling Arthur's no-longer-neat hair, then he sits up. 'That should be long enough; get your kit back on, Arthur, Mama is waiting!'

Arthur glares at the side of Eames's head, but he follows instructions. After a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom, Arthur's put himself back together well enough to be presentable. Eames, of course, has artfully-mussed his own clothing so that even the most willfully-blind of homophobes won't be able to ignore what they just did.

'As always the paragon of class,' Arthur says, but he can't even pretend it's not fondness in his tone.

Eames blows him a kiss and leads Arthur back down the staircase and into a cosy drawing room. There's a matched pair of elderly men bracketing an elegant woman, all three of them in yet more hideous sweaters. The men look too similar to be anything but twins, though their expressions could not be more different.

'Mama!' Eames beams and seizes Arthur's hand to drag him over to her. 'Look who just arrived! It's my Arthur!'

' _Just_ arrived,' Eames's mother says, giving first Eames, then Arthur an amused look. 'It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Arthur.'

She smooths the front of her sweater down, brushing a hand over a flamingo wearing a Santa costume then extends it to Arthur. He shakes, trying not to let his opinion of the Eames family dress code show on his face.

The happier of the twins leaps out of his chair, and Arthur takes an alarmed step back as _his_ sweater's hem springs out in a hoop to give the man the silhouette of a Christmas tree. The shaped sweater has blinking lights sewn into it and what looks like a string of popcorn winding around the man's torso.

'Is that real popcorn?' Arthur asks before he can stop himself.

The Christmas tree twin laughs and grabs Arthur by the hand to give him a hearty shake. 'Shellacked, my dear boy. It detaches for ease of cleaning.'

'Uncle Algernon,' Eames leans in to say directly into Arthur's ear, taking advantage of Arthur's distraction and his own position to press a kiss to Arthur's ear. 'And the last member of our delightful Christmas Eve gathering is Uncle Alfreic.'

Arthur turns his head to raise an eyebrow at Alfreic's scowl. Alfreic's glare intensifies, and it simply is not in Arthur to do anything other than return the stare until Alfreic blinks and turns his attention to the glass of scotch in his hand.

In Alfreic's defence, Arthur allows that the man is at a significant disadvantage in the intimidation stakes because of the insanely-grinning pair of Scottie dogs in tinsel collars on his sweater.

'Thank you for inviting me,' Arthur turns back to Eames's mother. 'You have a lovely house.'

Eames's mother inclines her head and gestures at the sideboard. 'Please help yourself to a drink; I imagine the drive from London was especially bloody this time of year.'

Normally Arthur does not drink when he's working (and Christmas with Eames's family _absolutely_ counts as working), but there are always exceptions to be made.

'Thank you,' Arthur says and heads to the largest decanter to pour what is probably about fifty pounds worth of scotch into a tumbler worth more than his first bike.

Alfreic harrumphs, but doesn't say anything. Algernon and Eames's mother make amused noises, and Eames fetches his own tumbler, knuckles brushing Arthur's in the obviously-subtle way the man might as well have trademarked.

Arthur lets Eames steer him back over to his mother and makes incredibly small talk for the duration of his drink. Once he's done, Arthur carefully stifles a yawn and submits to Eames's mother's knowing injunction to head to bed after his “dreadfully tiring day”.

Alfreic makes some more cranky noises, but liquor seems to have softened the edges of the man's obnoxiousness, so Eames and Arthur escape unharmed to head back to the ex-Clashes-With-Everything Room.

Eames makes some hopeful noises, but Arthur really did have a bitch of a day, so he locks himself in the bathroom to perform his ablutions and slides under Eames's duvet in perfectly-pressed Harrods pyjamas.

' _Arthur_ ,' Eames pouts. 'Branded pyjamas? Mama will be dreadfully disappointed in your naff taste. We'll have to wreck them; you can borrow a shirt and some boxers-'

'Anything you own wouldn't stay up even _with_ a belt,' Arthur points out.

'Perfect!' Eames drags his shirt over his head and drops it carelessly on the floor. 'Uncle Alfreic's coronary can be rescheduled for breakfast! And the man can go out marvelling at the perfection of your buttocks as my silk slides down your creamy thighs...'

Arthur snorts and rolls to his side, wraps one hand around the hilt of the knife he secreted under the pillow, and goes to sleep.

****

Arthur wakes when it's still mostly-dark outside and slips out of the bed to start on his morning routine.

He's on the third set of push ups when Eames pushes himself up and gives him a betrayed stare. 'I though it was the exclusive purview of children under ten to wake up at arse o'clock on Christmas?'

Arthur finishes that set and twists around to start set four of sit ups. 'I can't imagine how many black marks appeared on your service record,' he says, punctuating every sit up with a sharp cross punch. 'Rangers wouldn't put up with this sort of slug-a-bed bullshit.'

Eames stretches, a long catlike arch. ' _So many_ black marks, my dearest. My CO despaired of ever making a soldier out of me.'

'Not unfounded,' Arthur points out, a shadow of a grin trying its luck on his face.

' _Darling_ ,' Eames pouts. 'So cruel. 'I'll have you know I'm in better form than I _ever_ was at Sandhurst.'

'Well,' Arthur finishes his set and wraps an arm around his knees. 'You're certainly in better shape than a lot of Limey forces I served near, I'll give you that much.'

Eames throws one of the ridiculous, quilt-sized down pillows at Arthur and when Arthur wrestles it to one side, Eames is already straddling him. Arthur throws a punch at Eames's shoulder, but Eames catches him by the wrist, then the other and bears him to the floor with a triumphant grin.

' _Mon petit chou_ ,' Eames says, with customary execrable pronunciation. 'We can either get filthy and sweaty this way, or we can get filthy and sweaty the fun way-'

'Both seem equal fun to me,' Arthur puts in, even though his attempted throw is useless against Eames's pin. 'Fun way number one versus fun way number two?'

' _But_ ,' Eames leans down to bite at Arthur's lips. 'If we try for both, we will miss breakfast and I really feel like a kipper, my love.'

Arthur pulls a face and tilts his chin up. Eames leans in to press a kiss to Arthur's lips and lets Arthur roll them over. 'Fish is not a breakfast food, Eames. Unless we're talking lox and a schmear.'

Eames just smiles, a devastatingly happy expression that Arthur does his best to ignore, then he shoves his hand down the back of Arthur's pyjama bottoms and presses a finger against Arthur's hole.

'Yes, yes,' Arthur leans in for another kiss and scootches up to shove his pants off. There's lube in the pocket of the jacket Eames dropped on the floor, and condoms in Arthur's bag, so five seconds later, Arthur is straddling an equally-naked Eames. He squeezes some lube onto his fingers and kneels up to start stretching himself.

Eames's hands settle on Arthur's thighs, thumbs stroking circles that edge closer and closer to his cock without ever actually getting there. Arthur twists his fingers inside himself, bites his lip because he knows the picture he makes, knows how hot he looks. Eames bucks under him, strong fingers digging into Arthur's quads as confirmation Eames likes what he sees.

Arthur drags it out, letting his fingers slow. He smirks down at Eames, rocks rhythmically onto his own hand as Eames's breath gets heavier.

' _Arthur..._ ' Eames says, _begs_ , and Arthur pulls his fingers out, wipes his hand on his discarded pants, then slides the condom and a generous handful of lube on Eames before he lines up and slides all the way down.

He grunts when Eames bottoms out in him; the stretch and heat of him always takes a moment to get used to. Eames waits patiently, holding himself military-rigid until Arthur gives him the all-clear. Then he moves his hands to Arthur's hips and lifts him, shifts his feet so they're braced flat on the floor, then he starts thrusting.

Not hard, just long smooth strokes like they have all the time in the world.

Arthur leans back into Eames's thighs and wraps his hand around his own erection, matching Eames's rhythm. It's kind of perfect, fucking Eames on his childhood bedroom floor before heading down for whatever ridiculous Christmas Day traditions the Eames family have. The light coming in through the window looks like it's a beautiful Winter's day outside, and Eames will no doubt insist on a walk. Which will turn into a snowball fight, which will turn into making out in the snow, then hot toddies or mulled wine and a shared bath to warm back up.

Arthur feels a rush of fond exasperation for Eames and his indomitable romantic streak, even in the face of Arthur's Arthurness, and surprises himself by coming on the next down thrust. Eames babbles something adoring, thrusts another few times, then collapses onto the rug.

Arthur extricates himself with minimal discomfort and collapses beside Eames.

' _Marvellous_ as always, darling,' Eames says, turning his head to press a kiss against Arthur's shoulder. 'But it's time for kippers. Up and dressed; we'll go out for a walk after breakfast.'

Arthur huffs a laugh, presses his own kiss to Eames's mouth and hauls himself upright.

****

Arthur's prediction had been one hundred per cent accurate, though he hadn't expected to enjoy the snowball fight-slash-make-out-session quite as much as he had.

He slips into the claw-footed bath and leans forward to make room for Eames to climb in behind him.

Eames settles around him comfortably, presses his face into the nape of Arthur's neck and holds him while their limbs unfreeze.

They spend over an hour spooning and caressing in the water, topping it up with the hot tap every once in a while. Finally, Eames examines his pruney fingers, sighs and sloshes out of the bath.

'Come on, Arthur,' he scrubs himself down with one towel, then wraps another around his waist. 'We must dress for dinner and presents.'

When Arthur returns to their room, he finds Eames already dressed and a sweater in what looks suspiciously like Arthur's size lying on the bed.

'No way, Eames,' he says, dropping his towel and pulling on a pair of boxer briefs. 'Not happening.'

Eames claps his hands over his heart like some Golden Age of Cinema starlet. ' _Arthur_. Uncle Algernon made this especially for you. He was _so delighted_ week. I was good enough to provide your measurements, though I did have to rely on my own eye for these things rather than actual facts, so it may drape a little, but I'm afraid I will have to insist on you wearing it tonight.'

Arthur narrows his eyes, but Eames does actually look genuinely earnest, and what the hell. There won't be any proof of it happening, and the rest of the family will be wearing equally appalling couture. Arthur slips a pair of jeans on, pulls a t-shirt over his head and picks up the sweater.

It has an incredibly accurate likeness of Grumpy Cat in a Santa hat knit across the front, with the words “ho ho no” along the bottom of it. He raises his head and an eyebrow, but Eames just keeps smiling, so after a brief battle with his conscience, Arthur pulls the sweater over his head.

'At least if you're wearing it, you won't have to look at it, darling,' Eames says, opening a drawer to find his own sweater.

'No,' Arthur agrees. 'But I will have to stare at whatever you're wearing all night.'

'Best make it engrossing, then,' Eames finds the sweater he's looking for and gives a triumphant shout.

When he turns around, Arthur rolls his eyes. It is easily the loudest piece of clothing Arthur has ever seen; the front of the sweater is a three-dimensional Winter Wonderland with twee cottages in the background and a large Christmas tree dominating the fore. The sleeves are a mess of the sort of presents cartoon movies always use; soppy-looking teddy bears and red trains and candy canes. There's tinsel and more of the chili pepper lights sewn randomly through the scene, and when Eames grins and presses something on his own shoulder an LED Santa flies over Eames's collarbones.

Arthur stares. It's so mind-bendingly dreadful that it actually comes back around towards charming.

Or that might be Stockholm Syndrome kicking in.

****

Dinner is excellent, and Eames's mother even went to the trouble of making sure everything was kosher, even though Arthur hasn't kept kashrut since he was about fifteen.

It does have the added bonus in Eames's eyes (and Arthur's, and it looks like Algernon's as well) of making Alfreic scowl and glare at every piece of food he stabs with vengeful fury. Arthur's willing to bear the shame of wearing Algernon's sweater for the price of seeing an anti-Semitic dick work his way towards apoplexy.

Conversation flows in concert with the wine and contrary to his expectations for the stay, Arthur finds himself genuinely enjoying himself.

After dinner they retreat to the drawing room and Algernon passes everyone large glasses of brandy before disappearing to “do something dreadfully important”.

'Should we be alarmed?' Eames asks his mother, one side of his mouth quirking up. 'Or shall we simply change the labels on his gifts again?'

'So juvenile, my dear,' Eames's mother shakes her head. 'And after I short-sheeted his bed already.'

Alfreic makes a disgusted sound and goes to get himself a refill.

'A charming assortment of dildos in his bed, luggage, dresser and bathroom,' Eames confides to Arthur and his mother. ' _And_ I changed his ring tone to the _Hava Nagila_.'

Eames's mother grins behind her glass of brandy and leans in to tell Arthur 'Alfreic can hardly manage to pick his mobile _up_ , let along change any settings. I think I shall treble my weekly phone calls to him.'

Arthur, in spite of himself, laughs. Then a flash goes off somewhere to his left and he whirls, splattering brandy all over Eames and Eames's mother's Persian rug.

' _Wonderful_!' Alfreic crows, staring down at his digital camera. 'Eames, if only you'd _said_ how beautiful he is when he smiles-'

'You'd have seduced him away with your many wiles,' Eames finishes, wrapping an arm around Arthur's waist. 'Unfortunately, Uncle Algernon, you missed your window.'

Arthur relaxes, though he's already plotting five different plans for finding and destroying every copy of that photo. He slips his own arm around Eames's waist and gives him a sharp pinch in warning, which Eames ignores.

Then Arthur registers what Algernon is wearing.

It's astonishing. Arthur had thought yesterday's tree-shaped abomination was the pinnacle of Algernon's madness, but this one leaves it for dead.

 _This_ one is a knee-length green dress, an entire hula hoop sewn into its hem, the hem additionally trimmed with a white feather boa. The tree portion of the dress is festooned with actual baubles, little blobby baby Jesuses made by a child with more enthusiasm than skill (dear lord, Arthur hopes they are the work of a child), even more tinsel and a model train on tracks that wind around Algernon's hips.

Algernon's wearing a white beard, which blends in with the chubby headless toy Santa sewn into the neck hole. The Santa is leaning over to place a star on Algernon's shoulder, so he looks like a monstrous part of his own god awful creation.

Arthur can't even try to get his expression under control, so the flash going off a second time is something less than surprising.

He lets Eames swing him around to kiss him; a theatrical, swooping princess-dip kiss Arthur will absolutely punish him for later tonight. But for now, he just opens his mouth and ignores the seizure-inducing flashing of Algernon's camera, Alfreic's muttered bitching and Eames's mother's cooing.

'Arthur, _darling_ ,' Eames breathes against his lips when he pauses for breath.

'Hmm?' Arthur raises his eyebrows.

Eames beams down at him and strokes one hand along the line of Arthur's spine. 'I'm so very glad you came.'

'Well,' Arthur cranes up to get his mouth right next to Eames's ear. 'Not yet, but I have great hopes for later tonight.'

Eames laughs so hard he drops Arthur, but all in all, Arthur is _very_ glad he came too.

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus fucking Christ, I love that not only was "Ugly Holiday Sweaters" an existing tag, there were _multiple_ variants. Never change, fandom.
> 
> Also?  
> 
> 
> Because it's not like _I'd_ make something like that up.


End file.
